


Bull's-eye

by ignipes



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-30
Updated: 2006-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-03 05:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean never used to have any trouble beating Sam at darts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bull's-eye

When the third dart in a row veered off course and hit the wood beneath the target with a dull _thunk_, Dean swore loud enough to draw the attention of several other folks in the bar.

"What the _fuck!_ Goddamn stupid fucking sonofabitch--"

Not caring that he was acting like -- well, acting like a pissy brat, which was usually Sam's job at this point in the game -- he stomped over to the wall, yanked the darts out, and stomped back. He slammed the darts onto the table, rattling the beer bottles and bowl of peanuts.

"You think that's funny?" Dean growled.

Sam looked like he was either badly constipated or trying very hard not to laugh. "No, no," he said, shaking his head emphatically. His voice was practically dripping with sympathy. "You're just off your game tonight. You had a rough day."

Dean said nothing, opting instead for the more ominous act of glaring and taking a long swallow of his beer. Dean had spent the day going cross-eyed over ancient newspaper articles in a motel room while construction workers jack-hammered the parking lot to pieces just outside the window. But Sam, the little bitch, had spent the day happily employing his dopey grin and puppy-dog eyes to coax a buxom nurse into gossiping about the town's recent rash of mysterious deaths. And he had told Dean all about it when he returned to the motel, just minutes after the jack-hammer crew left.

Usually when life was this unfair, randomly hurling sharp, pointed objects around in public places made Dean feel a whole lot better.

Not tonight.

"Fine," Dean said finally, setting his empty beer bottle down and picking up Sam's half-full one. "You think it's funny? You try to throw those fucking darts. I swear, they must be crooked or something."

Sam raised his eyebrows and stood up. "They look fine to me," he said, examining them closely.

Dean snorted. "Right. So, let's see what you can do, smartass."

Sam threw the first dart.

Bull's-eye.

Second dart.

Bull's-eye. Made the first one shake a little bit.

Third.

Fuck.

Dean finished the rest of Sam's beer.

"Dumb luck," he said, grinding the words out through clenched teeth.

Sam plucked the darts out of the dartboard and carried them back to Dean. "You have to concentrate," he said, in the tone of one explaining the complex physics of not touching a hot stove to a small child. "You have to focus on the target. It's all up here," he said, tapping his head knowingly.

"Fuck you."

Dean grabbed the darts from Sam and marched up to the line. It wasn't just a matter of pride, he told himself. It was a matter of not giving Sam a reason to being smug and insufferable for the next three days.

The first dart spun wildly out of control and ended up sticking out of the floorboards.

"Not bad," Sam remarked.

Dean flipped him off without even looking and threw the second.

The second dart ended up punching a hole in an old movie poster on the wall, vibrating as it stuck right between Cary Grant's eyes.

"I never liked that movie either," Sam said approvingly.

The third dart soared straight toward the target, flying to the bull's-eye like it was on a fucking zip line, no way it could miss--

And it stopped.

For just a split-second, about half an inch away from the target, it stopped in midair, perfectly still.

Then it slammed into the bull's-eye.

Dean spun around. "You little fucker!"

Sam tried to look surprised for about five seconds. But he couldn't manage it, and he doubled over laughing, slapping the tabletop with his hand, laughing so hard it sounded like he was having trouble breathing.

"You fucking punk, I can't believe you were--" Dean stopped. A few of the good people at the bar were glancing their way, looking like maybe they couldn't decide if they should laugh too or arm themselves with pool cues. Dean stepped over to the table and leaned both hands on it. Quietly, he said, "I can't believe you. What about all that whining -- 'I don't know how to control it, Dean, it just happens, man, I can't do anything about it'--"

"I've..." Sam gasped for breath, wiping his eyes. "I've been practicing."

"Yeah, I can see that." Dean sat down in his chair and picked up a bottle before he realized it was empty. He looked over at the dartboard. "I don't fucking believe it."

Sam was watching him, his expression now serious. "You're not -- look, I know it's freaky. Trust me, I'm more freaked out than you, but I figured I should know what I can do--"

"Yeah, yeah." Dean waved his hand dismissively. "You're right. It's just--" He shook his head, let himself crack a smile. "Dude, that's cheating. Cheating so fucking bad. You still throw darts for shit."

"Maybe," Sam agreed, and his face relaxed into a smile again. "But you'll never know."

"I can't believe you."

Dean stood up and took a few steps toward the bar. Then he stopped, casting a speculative glance around the joint, and went back over to Sam.

"What?" Sam narrowed his eyes warily.

Dean asked, his voice low, "D'ya think you can do that with pool balls?"


End file.
